


Fk You Disney

by NoRhymeNorReason



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fairy Tale Curses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 10:28:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2847689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoRhymeNorReason/pseuds/NoRhymeNorReason
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England and America are cursed to keep living different fairy tale stories until they confess their love. One will play the unwilling prince, one will always be in distress, and two others will be there to help (or hinder) their happily ever after. UkUs,</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rampion

**Author's Note:**

> I was cruising the kink meme again and decided to give this request a go. I know the whole fairy tale theme has been done many times, but I really like the idea of England and America being cursed to reenact these tales against their will. As a result, these stories will be altered (perhaps even drastically) to reflect their unwillingness to play their parts and the added bonus of Hungary and Prussia's influence.
> 
> Warnings: Not Disney's version of fairy tales, cursing, maybe some OOC, lots of cross-dressing, not beta approved.

"Canada. Close the curtains will you? I'm being blinded over here," America's muffled voice grumbles.

Getting no response, he turns his face from the pillow and squeezes his eyes shut against the offending light still pouring in despite his complaints. "Canada?"

...

Urg. Guess he'll have to close them himself.

Yawning loudly, America sluggishly wills his body to move into an upright position and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. He winces when his bare feet meet cold, hardwood floor.

Strange. This bedroom is supposed to be carpeted.

He blindly staggers towards the window and gropes around for where the curtains ought to be only to find them missing. Extremely annoyed, America gingerly rubs the sleep out of his eyes and is utterly shocked by the scenery when he opens them.

It's a beautiful, Technicolor day -complete with lush forest, singing birds and shimmering rainbow- but he is several stories above the ground!

"What the…Where the hell am I!?"

He stumbles back a few paces and gapes in bewilderment at the grey stone walls forming his new bedroom. The furniture is sparse: a bed just big enough for one, a small table with two chairs in front of a fireplace, a wash basin, and a full length mirror beside it. Most worrisome is the lack of doors or stairs.

"Good morning!"

America whips around to find an albino man sitting on the window sill with one leg casually swinging over the edge. He is wearing a pair of well-worn jeans and a white shirt proudly displaying a crowned black eagle. The sunshine behind him gives his body an angelic silhouette, but the smile of his red eyes speaks of someone up to no good.

"Prussia...how did I end up at your house?"

"Are you kidding? I'm way too awesome to own a rundown little pile of rocks like this! You my friend are in a fairy tale which is located neither here nor there."

America points an accusatory finger. "You must have drugged me at the meeting because I'm still wearing the same dress shirt and pants I had on yesterday! You didn't draw a penis on my face with a permanent marker too did you?"

"Such tactics are beneath me...well, aside from the penis artwork of course." Prussia muses as America goes to the mirror to double check. "I could have easily beaten you up and dragged you here!"

America rolls his eyes then presses his face close to his reflection. His short hair is a mess -much like England's on a good day. He should really locate his glasses. "How did I end up here then?"

"Hungary and Awesome Me made a bet to see if you and ol' England were actually in love with each other despite all the fighting you do." Prussia reaches his right hand out towards the wilderness, whistles a short tune, and a little yellow bird flies down to happily perch upon his finger.

"We are not in love!" America sputters at the albino's reflection.

The Prussian playfully scratches his feathered friend and then gently places it on top of his head. "That's what I said! I told her she'd be better off keeping her nose firmly in her book of 'happily ever after's than wishing for any kind of romance between you two. Next thing I know she has this crazy idea, Norway gets involved with some hocus pocus shit, and here we are!"

"I must be dreaming...or comatose."

Prussia gets up, crosses the floor, and swiftly punches his arm.

"What the hell, man? A simple little pinch would've sufficed!" America rubs the sore spot. "Let's say I believe you and this whole fairy tale thing. How do I get back home?"

Prussia grins. "It's simple. All you have to do is not kiss England."

"As if I would!"

"That's the spirit! Ok. Let's get this ball rollin'!" Prussia takes a hold of America's shirt and drags him closer to himself. Then he leans in and whispers into America's ear. "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair."

To America's utter amazement, his hair begins to lengthen to his shoulders. To his utter horror, it continues to cascade down his back and coils at his feet without any indication that it will ever stop growing.

~##~

"No."

"Come on England!"

"First of all, I should guillotine you for pretending to be my Queen," England growls.

"I'm the King of this kingdom, not the Queen of yours." Hungary stands up from her place on the throne and slowly descends the stairs in a flourish of white fabric, furs, and jewelry.

"Second of all, I refuse to be your plaything just to satisfy your fanciful whims." He is dressed very much like a prince in his favored red uniform: complete with shiny buttons and equally shiny black boots. He searches his person for an item he concludes is missing. "What did you do with my wand?"

Hungary only barely manages not to giggle at the images conjured up in her imagination from those

two sentences. It wouldn't do make England any angrier than he is. "You can't magically get yourself out of this. If you want to break Norway's spell, all you have to do is admit you love America and kiss him!"

"I'll do absolutely nothing of the sort!"

If only England could see the blush on his face right now. He'll probably just say it's in anger instead of embarrassment.

"Then your only hope is that America will make the first move instead, but he can't do that if you do not go to him." Hungary plops herself down upon the last stair. "This will all be over before it even begins!"

"I fail to see how an ending is such a terrible problem. Where is America anyway?"

"He's caged high in a tower somewhere, waiting for his prince charming to save him from the evil enchantress." She examines her well-manicured nails. "Prussia in this case."

"Prussia is involved too!?"

"He wouldn't have agreed to this otherwise."

"What about my consent!?"

Hungary sighs. "I'm sorry I forced you into this England, but a number of nations and I are tired of watching you two tiptoeing around each other like a pair of skittish doves…Where are you going?"

England is making a hasty exit towards the doors.

"Are you going to save him then?" She calls out hopefully.

"No! I bet anything this nightmare will end once the clock strikes midnight. In the meantime, I'm going to locate the cellar where I hope for your sake that I shall find a copious amount of alcohol."

"Wait!" Hungary shouts after him. "I don't think you understand-"

The throne room door closes and England is gone before she can explain.

"-what I mean by ending." she finishes lamely.

Crap. This is going to be so much harder than she thought it would be.

~##~

"What do you have to lose, she says!" He mutters to himself. He can hardly see a thing in the dark, and he keeps getting caught on these damn thorns. "America!" he shouts up towards the sky. The window is too high to throw rocks at and of course there is no door, so he can't personally throttle the moron awake.

England had waited past the midnight hour at his temporary castle home. He had waited past several midnights trying to think of every possible way to undo the spell without luck. On the fifth day he had gone slumping back to the throne room in defeat.

"America!" He shouts for the umpteenth time.

Finally the shutters are thrown open to allow a dim light to spill out, and he can faintly see a figure leaning over the sill. "Who is it?"

"I'm soddin' Santa Claus!"

"Where have you been all this time?"

"Delivering presents to good little children. Throw down a rope and let me up already!"

"The only thing I'll be throwing down to you is the contents of my chamber pot!...If I manage to find my chamber pot...How is it that fairy tale people never use the bathroom?"

"America!"

"Alright, alright! Cool your jets and give me a moment."

A considerable length of braided blonde hair is lowered down. For some reason England had not been expecting this tale to be taken so literally, but he shrugs and makes the ascent. When he finally reaches the top, two hands firmly help drag him into the tower room. After dusting himself off and straightening his uniform, England gazes at the American tethered to the hook above the window by his hair.

"My, my. I see you've picked up a rather interesting hobby whilst I was away," he laughs.

America is wearing a long-sleeved, light blue dress which hangs down just above his ankles. It will twirl outward nicely if he so desires to give it a twirl, but he definitely isn't in the mood to do such a thing.

"Hardy harr harr. Get it all out of your system. Apparently the dress comes with the hair, free of charge," he says forlornly. "At least the carpet isn't as long as the drapes."

"Don't be obscene. Now, to the point of my being here. If we want to get home all you have to do is-"

"Not gonna happen," America deadpans. "Prussia already gave me the gist of what's going on and he told me not to kiss you."

England's eyes widen. "You trust what that obnoxious arse says over me!?"

"I wouldn't trust Prussia with a paper plate, but my decision still stands."

"Fine!" England throws a leg back over the sill to retreat whence he came. "Stay in this tower and rot for all I care!"

He misses the fleeting look of worry on America's face.

"Where are you going?"

"Back to my castle to live a life of luxury whilst waiting for this failed plotline to finally terminate on its own. I told Hungary this would happen, but she insisted I waste my time anyway."

"Hold up! Hungary is there with you? Does she...stay with you every day and night?"

England pauses for a moment and raises an eyebrow. "Jealous are we?"

"Not on your life!" America petulantly crosses his arms and finds an interesting spot to stare at. "Just get lost already. The rats are much better company than you are: easier on the

eyes too."

~##~

"Lunatics! The whole bloody lot of 'em!"

England angrily paces about the forest clearing. He couldn't go back to the castle because he knew Hungary would harass him every second of the day. He couldn't go back to the tower because he'd end up killing America: fairy tale be damned. He had spent an entire sleepless night in the cold forest next to a sputtering fire.

Perhaps he should just force a kiss on the American, quickly get the hell home, and sweep this whole matter under the carpet.

Before he can change his mind, England gallops back to the lone tower on his noble steed. When he calls up to the window, he is surprised when America immediately throws down his hair without any snide remarks or complaints. Upon reaching the top, he discovers why.

Prussia is waiting for him. America is nowhere to be found, but the gleam of a pair of scissors embedded upright into the wooden table is explanation enough.

"You're too late, prince charming!" Prussia cackles. "America has been banished to the wilderness where you'll never see him again."

"If you think I'm going to be beside myself with grief and cast myself out this window in despair, you're going to be sorely disappointed," England scoffs.

"Tsk. I can't have you spoiling the fun part!"

With a wave of his hand Prussia sends England flying out the tower's only exit. His yell is cut off when his body hits the waiting briars below.

"Hahahaha!" Prussia turns on his heel and dramatically bows to the new occupant standing behind him. "The score is one to zero my liege."

Hungary scowls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title explanation: Rampion is the English common name for the rapunzel -a salad plant- which was stolen from Dame Gothel's garden in the Brother's Grimm version.
> 
> England isn't dead of course. The prince survives his fall in the story but is blinded by the thorns. He spends his sightless days searching for Rapunzel and eventually finds her with his twin children.


	2. Trouver Un Mari

"Do I have your attention now?"

It takes a few minutes for England to get his breath back after having the wind so thoroughly knocked out of him.

"Undivided...only because I'm too dazed to make an escape."

Is that his voice? It's horribly gruff.

"You stubborn _jackass_! I told you not to leave America alone in that tower for so long! Had you listened to me, he wouldn't have rebuffed you!"

"Is that right?" England opens his eyes to Hungary's stern face hovering above him. The thorn bushes he landed in are newly abloom with beautiful red roses which outline his perspective like a cheesy shoujo manga. "Did America tell you this himself? I distinctly remember him being quite adamant."

"Ok, he didn't tell me anything, but the reason behind his actions are obvious!"

England mutters something unintelligible. He brings an arm up to his face to scratch an itch on his nose but stills at the shape of his hand. "I must say...I'm torn between being pleased about not crushing my own prized roses and disappointed at being held hostage in yet another fairy tale."

"The curse will continue until a certain _someone_ kisses a certain _someone_ ; however, there are a few rules we must all abide by."

"Enlighten me."

"I cannot force you and America to kiss, and Prussia doesn't have to wear anything he doesn't want to." Hungary makes a fruitless effort to help pull him upright. The white dress she's wearing has a slight shimmer to it. "Finally, each tale will have additional rules unique to their plot."

"Let me guess." He finally gets to his feet and stretches his sore back and limbs. "I'm stuck looking like this."

"Yes and America will not remember this fairy tale. No one -not even you- can tell him what you've become."

~##~

"Why am I not surprised?"

America's dress is laden with pink fabric and white frills. The hoop skirt fans out at least twice the diameter of his hips, giving off the impression that he's either going to float away or is trying to rob a church of its bell. He eyes Prussia's crowned eagle shirt and jeans with jealousy and longing.

"You shouldn't be. You didn't kiss England, and I gave you back your freedom as I said I would."

"I'm in another room made of stone walls!"

The bedroom is gaudy. There is so much overly embellished decor, elaborate tapestries, and pretentious furniture. The room's only saving grace is a very comfortable looking four-poster.

"It has a door," Prussia says pointedly.

"Am I never to open it?"

"You can leave whenever you want and go wherever you please."

"I want to leave this place."

"As a loving and concerned father, I encourage you to do so!" Prussia looks around suspiciously and whispers, "They say this chateau is cursed after all: haunted even."

"Ghost?" America needlessly whispers back.

"Worse I'm told. I hope England didn't come across anything wicked when he went looking for you."

"You're lying through your teeth again!"

Prussia strolls past him and opens the door. "Well here's your chance to prove me wrong. Oh, and don't forget these."

He produces America's glasses from seemingly out of nowhere. America angrily snatches them away, returns them to their rightful place, and peers around the threshold. The spiraling stairwell on the other side is dimly lit by candles.

"What about you?"

America turns to find Prussia gone. Figures. This is exactly what Prussia did in the Rapunzel story. He'd show up for two minutes to make sure America didn't starve to death then disappear as quickly as he arrived.

America grips the front of his dress and takes his first tentative step out into the landing. Emboldened when nothing supernatural attacks him, he puts on his brave face and makes the descent.

The chateau is enormous with its impossibly high ceilings, numerous windows and endless corridors, but it's as silent as a graveyard. Where are all the people? Oh God, this is so damn creepy! America picks up his pace to find an exit, but he jogs past something on the wall which makes him halt and backtrack.

It's an oil painting in a gilded frame: a portrait of England with a perfectly neutral expression as he gazes off somewhere behind the viewer. He's standing ramrod straight in a black, double-breasted ceremonial tailcoat worn by admirals or royalty in the British navy. There's a Victoria Cross at his neck and various medallions strung across his chest. His left hand rests on the hilt of a sword at his side.

This is England's chateau? Aren't chateaus French?

He'd dwell on this topic longer, but he is distracted again by the smell of food drifting in his direction. Where there's food, there's people! America follows his nose to the dining room where he finds a table set with gold candelabras and roses, and a roasted pig served with a variety of fruits, vegetables and desserts.

No people.

He tries to wait a few minutes to see if anyone arrives, but his stomach is impatient so he sits down and helps himself to a meal fit for a king.

Halfway through dinner someone does show up, but it's not England.

America chokes on his drink when a huge Kodiak bear suddenly ambles into the room.

If there is one thing America learned whilst alone in that Rapunzel tower, it is that he can hardly bend a spoon with his hands (sadly, nor with his mind). He very slowly reaches for a carving knife, keenly aware it isn't going to stop a full grown Alaskan grizzly from munching on his head like a grape.

~##~

England comfortably situates himself into an oversize chair, temporarily ignoring the tense man holding a knife at the other end of the table.

It looks like Hungary as already prepared some tea for him. If this is her way of trying to make up for past wrongs, it's a very small start. Now to figure out the most gentlemanly way to drink from a teacup with bear paws -a feat he'd attempt to accomplish even if he had hooves.

"I knew I'd find you here, America. When it comes to food you are about as predictable as the sun."

America is so surprised he relents the white-knuckled grip he has on the knife. "You can talk!"

"Very observant of you."

"How do you know my name?"

England opens his mouth to explain exactly who he is, but the only sound which comes out is growled nonsense. Hungary was serious about that rule after all. "I know a lot about you: more than I care to know."

"Ah. You must have met Prussia then. That man is such a gossiper!"

"No, I-"

"What's your name?"

England sighs. "Mr. Bear is fine."

"I can't call you Mr. Bear."

"Why not?"

"It's too formal!"

"Then give me a name if you're going to be annoying about it!"

America thinks real hard for a moment. "I shall call you Paddington."

"The talking Peruvian bear found in a London station?"

"Yes! How did you know that?"

"It was written by one of my own, so why wouldn't I know it?" He stares intently down his muzzle at America and America blinks back at him. England can almost see the gears turning and the little light bulb spark to life.

"Wow! I didn't know the UK could train bears to write stories! Was the author of Winnie the Pooh a bear also?"

…

England is not going to flip this fucking table. What he is going to do is take a deep, calming breath and ever-so-gently set down this teacup with its woefully undisturbed contents.

"I think it's about time I get some sleep, or perhaps take a long hibernation," he says dryly. "Promise me that you will not leave the palace grounds. Nasty bit of winter weather out there. The last thing I need is for you to come down with something and spread it to me."

America nods once. It's not an outright promise, but it'll have to do.

Before England leaves it occurs to him that this is the perfect opportunity to ask a question with his newfound identity.

"By the way...Is there...someone you love?"

America reacts like a deer in headlights. "That's a rather personal question from way out of left field!"

"If you insist on eating a free meal, the least you can do is answer my question."

"Ummm. No. There is no one."

"I see. Well. Goodnight America."

"Goodnight Paddington."

~##~

So it was that America found himself having dinner ('supper' Paddington had corrected) every day with a Kodiak bear. It's a wonder how he had gotten so used to such company. It had come to the point where whenever Paddington entered the room, America would pause for a second to say hello with a mouthful of food before continuing to shovel his meal into his face. He would then proceed to tune out the bear droning on about whatever it is that bears in chateaus find interesting to drone on about. At the end of dinner ('supper' Paddington had corrected) the bear would always ask the same awkward question regarding America's love-life.

Paddington is so much like England. Maybe the two of them should exchange phone numbers or something when this is all over.

America opens the door to a massive library with an intricately painted harpsichord sitting in the middle. It's the kind of boring room England would hang out in, but he's either not here or he has been crushed by an avalanche of books.

He idly plucks a bound volume off the shelf and reads the first page.

Welcome, America, banish fear,

You are queen and mistress here;

Speak your wishes, speak your will,

Swift obedience meets them still.

Huh…

Oh what the hell.

"I want to know what my brother is up to. He better not be going around claiming he's the default winner of our annual North American Pancake Eating Contest just because I failed to show at the scheduled date!"

~##~

England impatiently drums his claws upon the wooden table.

A week has gone by since America had come down to supper in distress, panicking over something he'd seen in a looking glass. Unbeknownst to England, Canada had fallen victim to both this fairy tale and some sort of illness. He had been holed up in a country house in the middle of nowhere for God only knows how long whilst the winter weather worsened.

America hadn't ask to go, but rather matter-of-factly stated that he was leaving to find and take care of his brother. He didn't have to ask anyway. England wasn't going to be a right arse and tell him no. He gave America a magic ring (courtesy of Hungary) to get where he needed to be and at least made him promise to return within a week.

He hasn't returned.

England took to avoiding the dining room altogether in favor of the palace gardens.

"Don't look so dour. This isn't over yet," Hungary had persisted, but England brushed her off.

How much more proof did she need?

On the tenth day he felt rather ill himself. Well it's no wonder. When was the last time he had properly eaten anything?

When he lays down upon a grassy plot to sleep, England has a dream that America is at his side crying like a baby. Well he deserves to cry! England reproaches him for all his ingratitude, his inability to look beyond appearances and read the atmosphere, and any other shortcomings he can lob at the other for good measure.

When he awakens he finds America exactly as he had left him in his dream.

"You look absolutely _hideous_ when you cry," England says weakly.

America's eyes are red and puffy, and he uses the sleeve of his dress to wipe away the snot running from his nose. "I was taking care of Canada, and then he got better, but then he begged me not to go, and then we had fun building snow forts and snowball fights, and then there was hot chocolate...and then...and then I had a dream that your were dieing, so I rushed back here to find it all true! I didn't mean to forget!" He sobs through a tidal wave tears. "I'm going to be responsible for the death of a talking bear! You aren't endangered too are you!"

...

"America, do you love me?"

"This isn't the time for that kind of questio~n!"

" _Do you love me?"_

"I like you as a friend, Paddington! Please don't die!"

England laughs, and with his last dying breath he utters the one thing he knows America needs to hear or he'll never fully understand his rightful place in England's world.

"You're one of the biggest idiots I know."

~##~

The quiet solitude of the country house is broken by the sound of a dainty foot kicking down the door.

Canada nearly drops his mug.

"Hello Hungary," he smiles sweetly. "It's so nice to see you again! Would you like some hot cocoa?"

"You manipulative little snake!"

"I'm sorry...What exactly did I do?"

"Cut the crap, Prussia. That look on you is disturbing on so many hellish levels."

"Well that's rude. It's not my fault America didn't wish for England. Your bitching at me isn't going to solve anything." One corner of Canada's mouth lifts two notches higher than the other. "Are you starting to have doubts about your faith, sweet pea?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title explanation = "Trouver un mari" is French for "To find a husband".
> 
> Beauty and the Beast was written by the French author Madame Gabrielle-Suzanne de Villeneuve in 1740. It is very long, very detailed and geared toward an adult audience. In 1757 Madame Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont shortened the story considerably and made it kid friendly. Her version became the most popular, remains so to this day, and is the guideline I used for this hetalia twist.
> 
> Beast's description = I saw a story illustration done by Tine van Berken (published by H.J.W. Becht ca 1900) where Beast is portrayed as an actual brown bear without all the inconvenience of clothing. I rather liked that portrayal. Brown bears are extinct on the British Isles and the Eurasian brown bear is nearly extinct in France. I went with a Kodiak mostly for the intimidation factor, and I rather like them too!
> 
> Hungary is the good fairy lady if you couldn't guess.


	3. My Immortal

_[[ Dark clouds gather above and with an ear-splitting boom, unleashes a biblical deluge of hell. The chateau crumbles like a sandcastle, the beautiful roses melt away like overly diluted paint, and an ocean's worth of water rises over his head faster than he can move to stay afloat._

_He kicks hard in a desperate bid to reach the surface, fighting against gravity and fatigue. When last bubble of breath leaves him, he squeezes his eyes tight and wonders if this is finally his ticket out. One can't die in a dream right?_

_There's no place like home._

_There's no place like home._

_There's no place like… ]]_

A yellow fish makes an agonizingly slow emergence from a cannon's muzzle. It creeps its way up towards a morsel proffered between human lips and after successfully snatching away its prize, makes a hastened retreat into the darkness from whence it came.

"I know what you're thinking," Prussia says between feeding himself and his pet fish bits of red crab. His bare chested body is draped lengthwise over the cannon's barrel. A grey shark's tale -attached to the hip where his legs ought to be- idly sways back and forth. "Perhaps England simply didn't want you to find him. He doesn't hide the fact that he finds you un _bear_ able," he snickers. "Why continue to seek him out?"

Why indeed. It's a question which has plagued him for a great deal of his life.

"I'm...waiting..."

"Waiting for what exactly?"

America doesn't respond.

_[[ When the suffocating pain of water replacing air never comes, America opens his eyes to an endless world of water._

_He's not dead!_

_Why is he not dead?_

_A quick survey of his body reveals one blue fishtail and gills on each side of his neck._

_The storm above continues and even from this distance below he can feel the tidal push and pull of its rage. He narrowly dodges a wooden crate as it goes plunging past him. Turning to peer after it he catching the sight of something familiar yet wholly unexpected._

_It's a large animal slowly descending into the obsidian tranquility below. ]]_

"Oh my. I've seen that look before. You are aiming for something and nothing I say is going sway you to stay here instead." Prussia pushes himself off the cannon and glides over to swim easy circles around the American mermaid: a shark sensing blood in the water. "Nothing lasts forever my friend, but forever is still a long time to wait. I'll give you what you want; however, know that it'll only bring suffering to that pretty-boy face of yours."

"But...what if you're wrong? I have to tell him that I-"

Prussia presses his index finger to America's lips. "Shhuuuu. You shouldn't say things you'll later regret. Before you go off on your tragic way, here's an easy riddle for you. How do you end an endless war?"

_[[ This is his chance! He can be the hero this time!_

_America dives down after it and, without hesitation, tightly grasps the clawed paw he once feared._

_Like the roses melting in the garden, the brown fur dissolves away at his touch. ]]_

~##~

The sleeves of his white shirt are puffy and his knee length breeches are an odd shade of pea green, but at least he no longer looks like driftwood. He still _feels_ like driftwood though: emotionally eroded, physically beaten, and slightly sun burnt.

"You're telling me Prussia was impersonating Canada the whole time?"

"It's true I'm afraid. He's been using your weaknesses against you and quite successfully at that."

England glances around at the drawing room's numerous oil paintings of unrecognizable people and landscapes vying for precious wall space.

"How do I know _you're_ not Prussia pretending to be France?"

"You don't." The extravagant man -dressed in a pastel blue jacket, white cravat, black heeled shoes, and blonde hair tied neatly with a pink bow- looks amused as he swirls a glass of red wine in an upright chair across from England's own. "I'm actually Hungary pretending to be France, but it doesn't matter if you believe me or not as you're not the one I need to convince."

"Then who is that poor bloke!?" England points a thumb over his shoulder to the butler in black and white standing immobile and emotionless by the drawing room door.

"He is nothing more than a likeness. There are only four of us in these fairy tales and four it will continue to be," says the France imposter. "Japan, please be a dear and fetch a bath towel."

The Japanese butler silently bows and exits the room. England slouches forward in his chair to rest his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands.

"This isn't a nightmare," he groans. "I've died and gone to a special kind of Hell."

"Oh please don't start with the dying swan act. I've got a new plan!"

"I dare not ask what it is."

"I wouldn't tell you even if you asked. If there's anything I've learned from these past failures it is to let actions speak louder than words."

"I must respectfully veto your proposal because I know it still involves me snogging a baboon."

"This isn't a UN security meeting! If I fail-," Hungary says angrily but quickly becomes melancholy. "If I fail this time, I promise you can go home to your little island kingdom without kissing anyone."

England uncovers his face and his expression is guarded yet a bit hopeful. "Do I have your word? No tricks?"

"Yes, yes I promise." Hungary drains the rest of her wine and perks up at the site of the door opening again. "Ah! Japan has returned with your bath towel."

"I took a bath and dried off after you dragged me out of the sea, remember?"

"It's not necessarily for you."

~##~

England slowly descends the long flight of marble stairs leading out to the sea with the bath towel tucked under his arm. He trust his feet to safely carry him forward as he loses himself to his thoughts. For once Hungary seemed to be understanding that this whole fairy tale kiss thing is ludicrous and not even her sadness at failing again could damper his joy of returning home.

Speaking of failures, when he sees the American again England is going to chastise him for being too stupid to figure out that he was Paddington!

On second thought, if he tells America he was Paddington it would be admitting to all the embarrassing questions he had had to ask under his temporary identity. England isn't one for prying into other people's love lives like he did, but Hungary had insisted he keep asking every day and she wouldn't let him get a good night's sleep otherwise! No. Best to never speak of that again. On the upside, England finally has spoken proof of what he's known all along.

England comes around a bend and halts a few steps from the water's edge. There is America, half submerged in the murky water, using his arms to leverage himself upon the last marble step, and staring at a patch of green moss as if it's the most interesting thing in the universe.

Damn it all. England was hoping he could get by without seeing this man again. Now he has to come up with something to say and preferably in no relation to previous fairy tale debacles. He settles with, "lovely day for a swim, eh?"

America startles and, upon seeing England above him, turns a bright shade of red. He quickly shrinks away behind the step so that only the top of his head and tips of his fingers are visible. England is confused by the shyness.

"Is something wrong? Are you having trouble getting out of the water and just too prideful to say anything about it? Here, let me help you."

England carefully descends and reaches out to help, but America panics and pushes away from the step to tread far out of England's reach. England frowns.

"I see being a trustworthy ally means nothing to you anymore."

America vigorously shakes his head. He points to himself, makes an up and down wave motion with his hand, then points to the open expanse of water behind him.

"You were swimming? All the way out there?"

America nods.

Suddenly it all makes sense: the lack of clothing in the area, the refusal to speak, swimming so far out where only daft people would dare swim.

"You're a mermaid."

America shrugs.

"Don't be stupid! You either are or you aren't! If you are not planning to drown me, get your sorry fat arse out of that damn freezing water!"

America motions for England to turn around.

"Why should I? It's nothing I haven't seen before."

America frowns and motions for England to turn around with more vigor. England grumbles something about prudes but he turns his back as requested.

"Lucky for you someone had the foresight to give me this towel."

Now that he knows the story they're currently trapped in, he has a few questions for that certain someone.

~##~

The ballroom dance is in full swing, but England is in no mood for dancing. Most of the people here are nameless, but he recognizes a few faces in the crowed. There is Austria on violin leading a string quartet, the stoic face of Germany with spear in hand as he stands guard at the ballroom entrance, and France (Hungary) merrily leading Belgium around the floor.

England scoffs at the scene, choosing to keep to the furthest corner with only a statue bust of a nobleman for company. So far Hungary hasn't played any of her cards, but somehow he knows she is merely waiting for the American to show up. Where is America anyway? The whole way back to the castle he had seemed to be in great pain climbing the stairs yet trying his damnedest to hide the fact. England hasn't seen him since Japan guided him away to get clothes and England dragged in the opposite direction to...whatever occasion this charade is supposed to be.

After nearly an hour of musing to himself in the corner, America finally makes an appearance and a grand appearance at that. Germany steps aside to allow three people into the room. Russia (also dressed as a butler) strolls in with Japan following close behind. The Russian is carrying a flailing pair of stocking legs in a purple, silk dress over his shoulder.

What a terrible way to treat a respectful woman!

Russia scans the room and spots England in his little corner. The crowd parts as the imposing man makes his way over to him and unceremoniously drops his bundle of purple rage upon her feet. She stumbles and makes a desperate grab for England's shirt front at the same time England reaches out to keep her from falling. When she finally gains composure and looks up at him, England's outburst of laughter drowns out the violins.

America pushes away from him and the glare he receives is nuclear. Japan looks as happy as an otaku at a cosplay convention whilst Russia...well England doesn't want to know what that creepy smile means. Both butlers bow before taking their leave.

"Fair maiden," England says as his laughter dies, "the lily doth not bloom in your presence lest it be judged inferior."

America blushes for the second time and takes off a heeled shoe to pummel him with. He is prevented from doing so by someone who takes hold of his wrist the moment America is about to swing it down.

"Pardon the intrusion, but may I have this dance?"

France's smile is so convincing -as if his definition of 'dance' has several layers of x rated innuendos- that England nearly forgets he isn't France.

"He is all yours."

"You are mistaken." France's blue eyes gleam. "I meant with you, England."

"What!?"

"You are my fiancé after all."

Hungary drags him away to join the other dancers before England can recover from his state of shock and confusion. She places France's hand on England's back and takes up England's right hand to lead him in a graceful move around the floor.

"What is the meaning of this!?" England tries to shake off her hold but she only grips his hands tighter.

"I sensed impending doom and simply had to sweep you off your feet before either of you could completely ruin everything."

Well England wanted a chance to talk to Hungary about her plans and now is as good a time as any. If she wants to dance then fine, he'll dance.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I do not recall any scenes of passionate kisses and declarations of love between the little mermaid and the prince."

"You should know by now that endings are of your own making," Hungary hums.

"You say you must fail so that we may go home, but by all intents and purposes you've already failed twice to play matchmaker yet these fairy tales continue. Should you fail this third time -and you will fail- what kind of catastrophic event would have to occur for you to keep your promise? Then it dawned on me. You will have to forfeit your bet with Prussia." England's next words are filled with mock concern. "Are you going to kill your husband on his wedding day, dearest?"

Hungary's step falters but she quickly recovers.

"It amazes me how sharp you can be in all matters which do not pertain to your love life. If you know the story then you should also realize I wasn't the one who saved you from drowning in the sea. Furthermore, I'm not going to kill you-"

Hungary halts their dance, pulls England closer and plants a hearty, lingering kiss upon his lips. England's body goes rigid.

"-but America surely might," she finishes with a sad smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Little Mermaid is by Hans Christian Anderson.
> 
> My Immortal (chapter title) = Mermaids have no immortal soul but humans do. To remain human the mermaid has to marry the prince, thus she would gain a soul of her own.
> 
> The little yellow fish in this story is Gilbird transformed!
> 
> I'm not sure if this was confusing or not, but Hungary looks like France for the entire duration of this story even if England refers to her as Hungary.
> 
> The conclusion of The Little Mermaid will continue in chapter four.


	4. The Oracle of Apollo (Part 1)

Five seconds.

Five minutes.

It could've damn well been five hours of France passionately claiming England's lips, but what use is the passage of time if he can no longer even count his own heartbeats?

There is still a chance this could turn into the entertaining brawl America had expected to ensue. There is still a chance he'll laugh this off and intervene before the inevitable bloodshed, so he waits for that chance whilst unconsciously clenching the fabric of his dress. When France pulls away to whisper sweet nothings into the Briton's ear, those green eyes casts a wary glance in his direction. America understands then that there will be no chance. He is completely deaf to the violins, numb to the searing pain in his legs and blind to everything but the man who isn't putting up a fight.

Someone laughs loudly -Denmark reacting to whatever his companion has said- and the voice kickstarts America's brain into gear. He pivots in the opposite direction and runs. He nearly topples the German at the door, nearly topples down the marble stairs outside the castle and doesn't stop running until he reaches the water's edge.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

America picks up a small stone and throws it as hard as he can into the sea, but the action does nothing to relieve the tension making his insides twist. He flops down and tries to regain his composure.

The splash of the stone is answered by a few more splashes, and Prussia's figure emerges from the depths. He gives America's leg a comforting pat.

"You insisted there was nothing between you two, but the truth is your love is horribly unrequited. It's best to forget your losses, kid. There are plenty of fish in the sea."

Everything makes sense now. It had taken so long to rescue him from the tower because 'hanging out with Hungary' was apparently code for 'having a liaison with France'! No wonder England had approached their fairy tale kiss like it was a business transaction. Though Rapunzel didn't end well, America had still hoped that kiss would change into something with meaning, but then the Briton disappeared altogether. Imagine America's surprise when the drowning bear had transformed into the very man he had been searching for! Why did England never say who he was? Had he been sitting around with France too whilst America wondered the chateau looking for him like an idiot? And all those questions of love. Is he that much of an entertaining joke between those two?

Prussia watches America's expression morph from hurt to anger.

"If you're ready to move on, I'm going to tell you the real way to escape these fairy tales. Have you solved my riddle yet?"

America subtly nods once.

How do you end an endless war?

Be the last man standing.

"Put England out of his misery," Prussia says, "and we can all go home: happily ever after."

~##~

The ship -illuminated by the occasional lamp- floats serenely on the dark water like a star in the night sky.

America has been hiding out on the quarterdeck since the reception began. It's quiet now with everyone having gone to bed after too much partying. He had not attended the wedding, and he would not have come here either if it weren't for Prussia reminding him that this moment is unavoidable. America has until sunrise to complete this task and, by the subtle tinge of dark blue on the horizon, that window of opportunity is dwindling fast. He pushes away from the railing, strolls past the helmsman -a tall, Swedish man who pays him no mind- and silently approaches a tent occupying the main deck. He takes a few deep breaths.

Don't think about it. This isn't real. Whatever you're feeling right now, lock it up and throw away the key.

America draws back the curtain door to a scene which makes his jealousy flare. England is lying on a couch large enough to be a small bed with France using his chest as a pillow. They're both sound asleep -or in a drunken stupor judging by the wine bottles littering the floor. America carefully sits on the edge of the couch to peer down at England's face. The Briton's breath alone is enough to give anyone nearby secondhand alcoholism. He hesitantly reaches out to brush back that disheveled hair, marveling at how the man looks so damn upset even when he is dreaming.

"Don't...touch me...France," England softly grumbles without waking.

Apparently America isn't even worthy enough to occupy the man's thoughts anymore.

Well. What would happen if he shaved off one of those thick eyebrows? Would it stay that way when they got home? On a scale of Colin Firth to Gordon Ramsay, how angry would he be? America catches himself smiling and frowns.

Why does it always turn out this way? Though the low points in their friendship were no longer plagued by bloodshed, their high points never seemed to go beyond bittersweet. More often than not, America found himself addicted to provoking England's ire. Anything to keep those green eyes on him.

Anything to keep the war going because the last man standing is a very lonely man indeed.

America retrieves the hidden knife strapped to his calf. He leans forward to lightly press it to the sleeping man's neck. All he has to do now is sweep the sharp blade across with the right amount of force.

Don't think about it. This is what he wants. There's no need for your hand to be shaking so badly.

...

...

Hey, Mr. United Kingdom.

Am I the hero in this story or the villain?

~##~

The couch suddenly heaves upward and dumps its occupant upon the floor with a sound akin to clattering pots and pans.

Instantly awake, slightly hungover and cursing up a storm, England quickly scrambles to his feet with every intention of punching someone's lights out but he finds no culprit to assault. Perplexed, he opens his eyes to daylight seeping into the very same tent he fell asleep in. Even more perplexing is the plated, grey metal covering everything from his chest to his toes.

Medieval armour. This certainly doesn't bode well.

A quick search of the couch reveals a silver handled knife embedded in the vicinity of where his head was resting.

_[[ "This story demands a sacrifice," Hungary whispers into England's ear as the ballroom dancers continue to move around them. "If your blood spills these fairy tales end. You can go home as I promised. However, if you awaken to the next tale you must continue your pursuit without denying the truth in his heart."_

_England's eyes automatically find America standing amongst the circle of bystanders, wearing an expression which looks suspiciously like betrayal._

_"Perhaps a few glasses of wine will help you find the truth in yours," Hungary says as she watches America flee the room._

_To Hungary's dismay, that small part of her plan totally backfired. Instead of lovey-dovey confessions, England had spent the entire night in their tent drunkenly ranting about everything he disliked about the American. It was all she could do to keep him from going out onto the deck to tell that stupid prat directly to his ugly face. ]]_

The truth in his heart.

No.

It couldn't be.

He and America are just friends. After all they've been through, that alone is a miracle. Sometimes the British nation wished their relationship could progress into something more, but in those moments of weakness he distracted himself by keeping very busy or finding ways to anger the other to appease his own irritation (American merchant ship? Haven't the foggiest where it went.).

But-

Despite all the gun pointing, bloody noses, name calling and cold indifference, America always gravitated back to him like a lost moon.

…

That insufferable little cow!

England removes the knife from the couch and looks around for the helmet which is supposed to complete his armour. He finds the open faced, metal dome lying closer to the door and he scoops that up too as he exits the tent.

Outside he discovers the helmsman is missing along with the crew. On the starboard side, the ship is pinned against a cliff. England clatters over to the port bow to get a better view of the landscape. There is a large expanse of beach stretching out below. A huge rock has torn a vertical path of destruction all the way up to the main deck railing. The ship couldn't have skimmed across the sandy beach to wedge itself into this space. England surmises the land must have risen up to meet it. Several more rocks on the port side line up to form an uneven spine which stretches out into the ocean. A short distance out into the water, a lone figure -clothed only in white pants- is tied to the rocky wall. England doesn't have to be told who it is.

"Oi!" England shouts down.

America's face turns up to him and he looks terrified to see England there. "Prepare the wagon!" He shouts back over the sound of crashing waves.

"What!?"

"Prepare. The. _Wagon!_ "

"That doesn't make any sense!"

There is an ominous sound of splintering wood and the ship shudders. England slowly turns, horrified to see a huge, white lizard with ruby eyes climbing on board from the stern.

"I believe he said 'beware the dragon'," it says in a rumbling version of Prussia's voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Oracle of Apollo (title) = Andromeda was a princess in Greek mythology whose mother (Cassiopeia) bragged that her daughter's beauty surpassed even that of the sea god Nereus' daughters. As punishment, Poseidon sent a dragon to ravage the coast and the kingdom. In a bid to save his citizens, the King consulted the Oracle of Apollo who told him that he had no choice but to sacrifice Andromeda to the dragon. The poor woman is stripped naked and tied to a rock, but she is later saved by Perseus. Speaking of "sacrificial woman tied to a rock", this theme is later replicated in the popular tale of Saint George and the Dragon. As you may already know, St. George is the patron saint of England as well as a few other countries. There were no ships involved in either story but I wanted the previous story to kind of start bleeding into the next.


	5. The Oracle of Apollo (Part 2)

Fuck his life.

England places the helmet on his head and makes sure it's securely in place. It has been centuries since he last fought a dragon. They're relatively docile and mostly harmless nowadays.

Prussia's dragon of choice is Asian in nature with a tiger-like countenance (if that tiger had a longer snout, extended side whiskers and two horns protruding from the back of its head). Sea dragons have thinner scales compared to their land bound counterparts, but they compensate this shortfall with a sharper intelligence.

"Fee-fi-fo-fum," Prussia merrily sings as he snakes body around the mizzenmast and the mainmast, pushing aside a dislodged cannon and whatever else happens to be in his way. The length his body -from his nose to the tip of his tail- could easily be ten meters or more. He halts at the foremast and draws his head up to peer down at the knight from a higher vantage point. "It's so lovely to see you again, England!"

"Likewise. I almost didn't recognize you. You actually look intimidating," England says with genuine sarcasm and feigned nonchalance.

"I know, right? You should've seen me in action a few moments ago! On the way over here I spotted this regal looking horse. It was innocently frolicking a little too close to the water and then...BAM! No more horse! It was like one of those fuckin' nature documentaries you love so much -the ones with the alligators." Prussia idly scratches his chest with claws the size of England's head. "Now that I think about it, I'd feel simply awful if I just deprived you of your noble steed."

"Be careful. Your reputation will be tarnished if people find out you are capable of remorse."

Brilliant. England is missing a sword and a horse. A horse wouldn't have done him any good with him being up here on a ship, but it would've made him feel marginally better knowing the option was there. What is he supposed to do now? Tickle the dragon to death?

"Where is your accomplice? That Hungarian chick must be hiding her head in the sand after that last spectacular failure."

"She didn't exactly fail."

The dragon tilts its head to one side. "If she didn't fail, why are you still trapped here?"

"I don't think you were expecting to still be trapped here either," England counters.

Prussia's eyes narrow. "Ok. Fine. Let's call that last fairy tale a draw, but that doesn't change the fact that you kissed a frog and got frog soup for your trouble. As much as I love watching everyone suffer, I'm getting kind of bored...Oh Hey, I have an idea! Let me kill America! He's a gift for me anyway."

"Tempting, but I'm afraid I can't do that. Chivalry, you see."

"Hahaha! You have a fickle sense of chivalry! Well, I guess it's not like I have anything better to do."

England barely manages to avoid the oncoming strike. He dodges left -the dragon's jaw snapping shut at little too close to his head- and aims his knife towards the red eye now conveniently placed at his level. The blade misses its intended target as Prussia moves his face out of harm's way. A tail wraps around England's body, and he is flung across the bow and nearly over the railing.

The sea dragon is on him again before he can properly stand up straight. It clamps down onto his right arm with enough force to cause the armour to slightly bend and protest. England swiftly retaliates by taking the weapon he had palmed to this left hand and plunges the blade into the fleshy nostril puffing hot air into his face.

Prussia winces and snarls but instead of releasing his hold, he lifts the knight clean off his feet. What comes next is the sound of metal striking rock and England's skull striking metal as the mythical creature slams him hard into the cliff-side.

England sees stars.

He lets go of the knife on the second impact and doesn't remember anything else after the third.

…

…

...

"Wake up!"

...

Eh? Is that Hungary's voice echoing in his head?

"You have to wake up and get your knife back!"

Had she not been paying attention? That silly little thing hadn't been all that helpful.

"I told you this once before. Endings are of your own making. If you want to slay the dragon and save your princess, then wake the hell up and slay the damn dragon!"

England awakens with a sharp intake of breath. He's flat on his back in the soft sand at the cliff's base, staring up at the birds soaring high above. Dazed, he slowly gets to his feet, keeping the cliff-side at his back for support and wincing at the pain which seems to originate from everywhere.

The imposing form of the ship remains immobile at this left. Prussia is coiled a short distance off towards the water, running a forked tongue over his bleeding nose. He looks up at England's movement and gives him a toothy, red stained smile.

"I commend you for drawing first blood! I hope you don't mind continuing your defiant last stand down here where it's more open. I want America to have a better view of me pulling you apart whilst you scream for mercy before I end him too."

England surreptitiously scans the ground at this feet, certain the weapon he dropped is close by. His peripheral vision catches a metallic gleam a few paces to his right. "No," he rasps as he inches his way towards it.

"No? But I think it's a fantastic idea! I'm open to better options though."

"I give up and you promise me you'll leave America alone."

"I'll leave him alone if you give up and serve as my personal slave for a year."

A bit of what looks to be the knife's hilt is within England's reach. "It's a deal then."

Prussia readies himself like a cat about to pounce. "Any last words before you are messily departed from this world?"

England falls to one knee and digs his fingers into the ground to grasp the weapon. He gives it a bit of a tug and is completely surprised when an additional pommel and crossguard is shaken free of sand.

"Just a friendly reminder that you're a pathetic excuse of a bygone nation," he says with a smug smile, "and I'm not."

The white dragon unleashes a deafening screech and charges. England allows it to get as close as he dares before launching himself forward with every ounce of strength he can muster.

There is a spray of blood when they meet.

Prussia's next words come out choked and garbled -which is understandable considering there's a broadsword running into his open maw and out the back of his neck. The dragon pulls back with the sword still lodge in place, but the fight is over for him. With severed nerves and a main artery, its entire body writhes uncontrollably before it eventually collapses to the ground and remains still.

The adrenaline coursing through England's veins quickly dissipates, and he falls on his ass to take a moment to recuperate. After taking off his helmet, he crosses 'slay the dragon' off his mental 'to do' list.

~##~

England is expecting jubilation for his gallant, near-death triumph over evil because America always fangirls over such things. However, what he gets is:

"Why are you here? Don't you have a French husband waiting for you, or is he chained up on the other side?"

The stone platform they're standing on is wide enough for three people at most and long enough to allow England to keep some distance between them. There is a high chance America is only pretending he can't free himself, and England really doesn't want to end this story with being tossed out into the deep end (friendly reminder: he is still heavily weighed down with metal and cannot swim).

"You must be joking! I wouldn't marry that French bastard if he were the last nation on earth: real or fictional!"

"That's funny because I distinctly remember being at your fictional reception!"

England crosses his arms over his chest and glares. "Did you actually attend the wedding ceremony you're accusing me of?"

"...No,but-"

"What a coincidence. I didn't attend it either! The reception was just a party for the sake of having a party."

America rolls his eyes. "Good one, England. Are you going to tell me the kiss you gave France was fake too?"

"France kissed me! There is a difference but never mind that. Even if it were all true, what right do you have to be so angry?"

America gives him a thin-lipped smile. "Who's angry? I'm certainly not, so you can run along now and leave me alone."

"I'm not leaving. You are my only ticket home."

"Then kiss me already so we can get this over with."

"I'm not going to do that either."

"Seriously, man! What do you want from me!?" This is the moment America would throw his arms up in exasperation if they weren't already chained above him.

"I want you to tell me why I'm in yet another fairy tale! You had every opportunity to end all this and yet you chose not to. Why?"

"Call it a serious lapse in my better judgment."

England looks out over the ocean and wishes another dragon would appear. "For the record, France wasn't even France. Hungary was impersonating him because she was trying to prove a point."

"What point might that be? She has serious tomboy issues and loves reenacting yaoi fantasies?"

"Accurate on both accounts but you missed the third point." England sighs, letting his anger leave him on the exhale. "I had the same opportunity once, and I didn't take it."

"England-"

"You love me."

The abrupt assertion gets the typical knee jerk reaction everyone has come to expect.

"I do not," he exclaims, but the American looks like someone is reading his personal journal out loud to a crowded room. He's also red as a lobster. "I mean I don't exactly hate you but if I ever loved you as anything more than a friend, it was in the past!"

"What about the present?"

"Ask me again in another hundred years or so," he grumbles.

"All this time...How was I to know your feelings? It's not like you shouted it from the mountaintops."

"Yeah well, you were so damn deep in your grumpy trench I didn't think you'd hear me anyway."

This is madness, and America is clearly going to force England to show his hand first if he ever wants it to end.

"I do...love you."

"Pfft. Am I supposed to believe that?"

England slowly closes the distance between them as if he's approaching a wild animal.

"Apparently you've given me another hundred years or so to prove it. To be honest, I know I won't need even a tiny fraction of that time span."

America shifts uncomfortably. "And people wonder where I get my arrogance from."

England places his palms flat against the rock on each side of America's body. "Now I think you owe me a reward for all my hard work today."

America tries to back away with nowhere to go. "Is that right?"

"Fairy tale law: chapter twenty-five, article two, section eight, paragraph 'c'."

"What if I still refuse?"

"Pirate law: I'll simply steal it from you."

America looks at him guardedly through water speckled glasses then huffs in annoyance. He squares himself up and closes his eyes.

Several tense seconds tick by.

Completely confused when nothing continues to happen, America peaks one eye open.

England grins. "What were you preparing for all by yourself? I just want to hear those three little words you seem to be so eager to tell me but never outright say."

America frowns. "You're an asshole."

"Hmmm. No. Try again."

…

"Olive juice."

England laughs. "Close enough." Without further ado, he presses himself flush against the other and takes his prized kiss.

America's breath catches. He doesn't reciprocate right away but when he does, he's uncharacteristically timid. This certainly won't do. England nips at his bottom lip and presses forward with more persistence. A switch is flipped and this time America responds with a forceful determination to pour out every ounce of emotion he had kept bottled up for so long.

The Briton is pretty sure he has been struck by lightning and set aflame. It's a bit of a shame he's is wearing all this armour. He can feel nothing but those slightly chapped lips which taste very much like the ocean, but it's oddly fitting this way. They have no common landmass to connect them, but America's lips are the Atlantic. In this day and age, a thousand words can touch their shores faster than any ship or plane. England fancies that if he stops kissing him right now, America's next words will be a new British song, a quote from a movie or perhaps the words of a book which will keep the other up at night.

With these lips, England promises he will write them a new fairy tale with an unabashedly sordid ending.

~##~

Canada arrives back at their hotel room with an ice bucket cradled in one arm and slides his keycard through the door's locking mechanism. It makes a whirring sound and flashes a red error light, so he tries again. He tries three more times to unlock his door without success.

Maple. If his brother is still sleeping, no amount of noise is going to wake him. Canada raises his hand to knock and has to jump back when the door suddenly flies open.

America steps out wearing Canada's red hoodie, Mickey Mouse boxer shorts and mismatched socks. "Mornin'bro!Can'tchat!Gottarun!" he says, snatching up the ice bucket as he goes barreling by. He careens around the corner at the end of the hallway, trailing a few ice cubes behind him.

Canada stares off in confusion after being hit by hurricane USA and wonders why his fucknut of a brother couldn't take his own damn hoodie.

The door to the room across theirs opens and Hungary appears, merrily humming a tune with a metal spade thrown over her shoulder. Canada is pretty sure these rooms do not come with complimentary digging tools.

"Good morning," she pauses for a bit too long, "Canada!"

"Good morning, Hungary. If you don't mind me asking, where are you off to today? Is there some sort of international gardening event I wasn't aware of?"

"Oh, I made a bet with Prussia. If he won, he said I'd have to do some weird Japanese bonding stuff with him. Since I won, I get to place Mr. Snow White in a beautiful glass coffin and burying him alive for a month...or until I remember to dig him back up again...whichever comes later. Well it was nice seeing you again dear but I really must be going! I can't give the little slimeball too much of a head start. Call me when you have the time and we can meetup for dinner and a movie!" She waves goodbye and heads for the elevator in the opposite direction of America's frantic departure.

Canada feels a tug on his pant leg and glances down at the white ball of fluff at his feet.

"Food," states the little polar bear.

"You already ate Kuma," Canada sighs. "We'll order room service and charge it to America's tab."

Meanwhile, America slides past room 319, backtracks and hammers upon the door with enough force to knock a nearby picture off the wall.

"This better be an emergency or a tea delivery else I'm going to decapitate you and put your head on a pike as a warning to others!" England's voice thunders from within. When he opens the door, the Briton is still in his pajamas even though it's nearly noon. "What in the blazes is your problem?"

It occurs to America that his fairy tale adventures may have been a dream after all. He can feel the panic rising as those green eyes wait for him to form coherent words sooner rather than later.

"I umm...brought you ice." He proffers up the ice bucket.

England raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "I save a princess in distress from the clutches of a dragon and all I get in return is ice?"

America sheepishly scratches the back of his neck and looks down at the floor. "Thanks and...I love you?" he says quietly.

"Don't annoy me by phrasing your response in the form of a question." England tugs him down by his collar and gives him a chaste kiss. He then takes the ice bucket and walks away, leaving the other standing there with a stupid smile on his face.

"What are you waiting for? Either come in or piss off."

America laughs. "Yes, sir! Right away, sir!" He steps into room 319 and gently closes the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Were you wondering why England was so happy to hear America say "olive juice"? If you only mouth the words, it looks exactly like you could also be saying "I love you."
> 
> I really enjoyed writing this story! Thanks for reading!


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